Fear in A Handful of Dust
by the ticking clock
Summary: "Those are the two things Matt loves most about his best friend-his acceptance and his laughter." A study of Nelson and Murdock. Spoilers for season 1.


**The title comes from T.S. Elliot's _The Waste Land._**

 **"And I will show you something different from either**  
 **Your shadow at morning striding behind you**  
 **Or your shadow at evening rising to meet you;**  
 **I will show you fear in a handful of dust."**

 **I don't know, for some reason these lines really spoke to me.**

* * *

"Hey," Foggy says, "what do you think I look like?"

They are studying, or supposed to be studying. It's spring, and the sun is pleasantly warm. The air is fresh and tastes like pollen-tangy on Matt's tongue. They'd decided to have a sort of improvised picnic. The blanket is scratchy and wool under Matt's hands as he reaches for his textbook.

Foggy has given up all pretense of working. He's stretched out like a cat, arms and legs sprawled in all directions, taking up most of their blanket. "Seriously, man," Foggy says, nudging Matt's shoulder. "What do you think I look like?"

This is a difficult question. Matt doesn't think he can ever explain what his world is like. Colors shift and coalesce in smoke like forms, flickering with flame and heat. Foggy is all warmth-a gentle, steady fire against the world's harsh, howling flames. Matt shrugs. "I don't know. I know your voice. That's all I really need to know."

"What's my voice like?" Foggy's voice is teasing and rich, familiar and layered in Matt's ears.

Matt sighs, shaking his head. "Warm?" it sounds like a question.

"Warm? Really?" Foggy laughs again. He is so full of joy, this ridiculous, wild boy who treats Matt like a human being. Those are the two things Matt loves most about his friend-his acceptance and his laughter. "Is that what you tell all the girls you sleep with?" He pauses, probably making some sort of face, and then says in a high pitched, poor imitation of Matt's voice, "oh yes sweet heart, I think your voice is warm!"

Matt cuffs his friend on the head, mussing up his hair. "Shut up."

"Seriously though," Foggy says, soft, serious, "you weren't always blind. Don't you ever wonder what people look like?"

"Of course I do," Matt says, fingering the head of his cane. "People just find it a little strange if I run my hands over their face."

A brief pause.

"Well," Foggy says, "do you want to know what I look like?"

It's awkward and it is going to uncomfortable, but Matt _is_ curious. Pushing himself up onto his elbows he extends his hands. "Come on."

"God, this is so weird," Foggy mutters.

Matt smiles.

His friend takes his hands, places them against his cheeks. They are round, flushed warm from the spring sunshine. Matt traces the shape of Foggy's eyelids, his nose, his lips, reading him. Foggy will have smile lines when he's older, Matt muses, feeling the slight dimples in his friend's cheeks.

Foggy's breathing erratically. Matt can hear each nervous rasp, feel the heat of them under his fingertips.

"Is this okay?" Matt asks.

"Oh yeah," Foggy gasps, the words tinged with the slightest bit of sarcasm, "it's just, you know...weird?"

Matt pulls his hands away. Foggy's heart beat steadies. "Thank you," Matt whispers, "I can see you now."

"I'm hot, right?"

Matt laughs, and the awkward tension hanging in the air, tangled between his curious fingertips disappears. "Yeah, Foggy," he says, clapping his friend on the shoulder. "You're a good looking guy."

"You're not to bad yourself, Murdock."

* * *

Matt is used to seeing a world on fire, but with Foggy he sees the world as one great story.

As they walk down the street, Matt loosely gripping his friend's sleeve, Foggy narrates everything:

"Dude, there is this ridiculous sign up ahead for some chick's new perfume line and the tagline is 'do you want to smell like a puppy's breath' what the hell?"

"Okay, this old guy just gave us the stink eye. Come on, man, he's blind, lay off!"

"There is hot girl. Walking towards us. You're probably pulling her towards you with your ridiculously chiseled jawline and the sunglasses. Girls love sunglasses. oooh, act natural, act natural-"

Matt bursts out laughing. He had, of course, known that the girl was coming towards them. He could smell the sickly sweet tang of her perfume, hear the click of her platform heels, but with Foggy's words he can picture her: blond, maybe? Foggy seems to like blonds...tall, wearing a light jacket because the air is still slightly chilly...

"Dude!" Foggy smacks Matt's arm. "That was not natural!"

"Laughter is very natural," Matt quips, stumbling at the light blow. His foot dips over the edge of the sidewalk. Foggy pulls him back, ever protective. At times it can be a bit annoying, but Foggy has adapted the role of Matt's interpreter to the world, and he takes it seriously. He doesn't treat Matt like he's broken, like he's made of glass, but he does worry. It's honestly a little touching.

"Come on," Matt says, touching Foggy's arm, "we're going to be late for class."

"You worry to much," Foggy mutters, "nerd."

"Do you want to be a lawyer or not?"

"I'm starting to think I should just be a butcher."

"No, no, no," Matt says, releasing his friend's sleeve and swinging an arm around his shoulders, "You, Foggy Nelson, are going to do great things."

"I'm rolling my eyes right now."

Matt smiles.

* * *

They think they are going to save the world.

Nelson and Murdock. Lawyers. Fighting for justice and the good of the people.

How did it end up so twisted?

Matt doesn't know. All he knows is he needs to stop the screams the haunt the streets of Hell's Kitchen, and the law can't always do that. Sometimes, he needs to use his fists and not his words. That doesn't mean it's easy. It means he goes to confession several times a week. It means he cleans blood out of his cloths almost every night and wraps his hands like a boxer.

It means lying to his best friend.

Matt thinks that is the worst part, not telling Foggy. Foggy, who has laid out the world for Matt with his words, who always makes a point of describing a person when they approach, or slipping in a private joke to make Matt smile during an awkward conversation.

Matt has to carry the weight of Hell's Kitchen's screams on his shoulder by himself. It's heavy and he hates that when Foggy says, "hey, you okay? did you run into that wall again?"

He has to force a laugh and say, "uh, yeah. Clumsy I guess." The lie tastes like ashes in his mouth.

Foggy doesn't suspect-his heart beat is steady and firm. "We need to get you a dog, buddy," he says, "this is getting ridiculous."

"I don't need a dog," Matt says, wincing as he reaches for coffee and tears a bit at the stitches he'd sewn the night before-he needs to look into bullet proof clothing.

"Awww," Karen says from the next room, "but they're so cute!"

Foggy claps him on the shoulder, and it takes all of Matt's self control to keep from crying out as his friend's fingers tighten on a bruise. "Be more careful, buddy, that's all I'm asking. I worry about you."

"Yeah," Matt says softly, "I will, thanks."

He goes out that night in the mask, and beats a man for touching his neighbor's daughter. It feels a little like saving the world.

* * *

Matt stumbles, bloody and beaten and breaking into his apartment and falls at Foggy's feet.

Everything after is a blur of pain and confusion-Foggy is shouting, and then Matt is being lifted and everything is on fire-his chest, his legs, his arms, his head. He can't _breathe_ and he's dimly aware of the fact that he's screaming.

"Matt," it's Claire's voice, hazy and garbled in his ears. Why is that? He gestures frantically to his chest, choking and crying. "Matt," she says, and she grabs his wrists. "Matt you need to hold still."

He can't. He needs to see things, needs to feel, because right now with the pain clouding his senses and his head spinning from blood loss, he's in the dark and it is terrifying. Claire's hands are gentle as she cleans the wounds on his chest, stitches the bullet holes, shoves her hands against his rib cage, feeling for broken bones.

Matt thrashes and screams and she tries to soothe him.

"Matt, Matt, I know you're in pain. I know, I know, you need to hold still, alright? Hey," she tosses the next words somewhere to the left, her tone considerably less friendly, "I could really use some help over here."

Shuffling foot steps. "I'm not a doctor."

Foggy.

There's something in his voice, something strained and raw and furious, but Matt can't remember why or how or hear anything else to tell him why his friend is so upset.

"I don't care," Claire is furious. "I need you to keep him still and calm, or I won't be able to stitch him properly, alright?"

The couch creaks. Foggy's voice is closer. "Matt? Listen to me you son of a bitch."

Foggy is definitely angry.

Matt coughs, trying to form words to speak but then-

Pain.

Something is stabbing his side, twisting, snapping, pulling-

His world goes black, then red. He arches his back and _screams._

"Matt! Matt! Come on, buddy! Matt!"

Touch.

Something closes around his wrists. Matt's next scream catches in his throat. Breathing hard, he pauses, registering the familiar grip. Foggy.

"I know it hurts," Foggy says. His voice is shaking. Gently, he lifts Matt's hands.

Skin. Warmth. Texture. Foggy is placing Matt's hands against his face.

"It's me," Foggy whispers, "I'm right here with you, buddy. See?"

Matt's fingers fumble, clumsy, slow with pain. Yes, there's Foggy's nose-with it's flared nostrils-the laugh lines around his eyes, the shape of his mouth.

Pain.

Matt screams again, the world flashing back into darkness.

Foggy's grip tightens on Matt's wrist, and Matt's awareness shifts from pain, to curiosity, to familiarity.

"Right here," Foggy says again. "I'm right here, and you are not going any where Matt Murdock because after all this is over I'm going to kick your ass."

Foggy keeps talking, the words running together in streams of garbled sound as Claire continues her work, and the pain becomes Matt's reality. He focuses on Foggy's fingers, encircling his wrists, firm and absolute and tangible and _real._

"You're almost done," Claire says an eternity later," she is smiling, he can hear it in her voice, a tired smile, "You're doing great, Matt."

Matt doesn't think that's quite true, but he manages to cough a relieved sort of sob that makes his ribs flare with pain again.

Foggy moves Matt's fingers so Matt can feel his smile.

* * *

After Fisk is put away, Matt feels like he can breathe.

They are working their way back together, he and Foggy. There is still some tension, still an odd catch in Foggy's voice and an air of hostility that hadn't existed before, but they are working on it.

"Hey," Foggy says as they are walking to work one day, "do you really need me to narrate everything?"

"You haven't been recently," Matt says, tapping his cane in front of him, feeling a stair. He steps down.

"Yeah, because you know so freaking much," Foggy almost snaps. "Like can't you just sense everything with the whole "world on fire" super power?"

"It doesn't work like that," Matt sighs. They've had this conversation before, but he doesn't mind chasing the idea in circles if it means it will make Foggy more comfortable. "I'm still blind, Foggy."

They walk in silence up the stairs. When they reach the top Foggy says, "Okay, this old lady was _totally_ staring at your butt when we were going up those stairs."

Matt laughs. "You sure she wasn't staring at yours?"

Foggy laughs, and Matt feels something settle on his shoulders, something wonderful and right and natural. This is how the world should be. It should be full of odd people and Foggy's warm laughter in his ears and the day laid out for him in stories that Foggy Nelson tells him as they walk to work to go bring justice to the people who deserve it.

Matt takes hold of Foggy's sleeve. "I'm feeling a little dizzy," he says, and he is, because Claire is 90% sure he has a concussion and he'd run off being Daredevil the night before instead of sleeping, "can you lead me?"

Foggy snorts, but complies, stepping forward so their pace matches. "You need to ease up on the whole savior of Hell's Kitchen thing," He says, "or you're going to have permanent brain damage."

"I'll be fine."

"Sure you will," Foggy unlocks the door to their building. Matt pauses to run his fingers over their sign: _Nelson and Murdock._ "Just promise me that you'll take a night off once a week."

Matt frowns.

"Don't give me that look," Foggy scolds, leading him up the stairs.

"What look?"

"You know what look."

"Fine," Matt sighs, "One night. I promise."

"Good," Foggy opens the door to their office and gives Matt a light shove, pushing him through the door way, "now let's go save the world."

So they do.

They save the world as a team-as Nelson and Murdock, one client at a time.

At night, Matt puts on the mask and saves his city.

But he always has Foggy Nelson on speed dial, and he knows his best friend will come running if Matt needs to be fished out of a dumpster.

"We should write a book about this," Foggy says as he and Claire half carry Matt into his apartment. "Like seriously, we could be super heroes."

Matt coughs a laugh, blood hot against his chapped lips. "Yeah, we're some heroes."

"We're Nelson and Murdock," Foggy crows, easing Matt gently down on the couch and leaving room for Claire's gentle hands. "that sounds like a pretty heroic name to me."

Matt smiles.


End file.
